


because ours are the moments i play in the dark

by crocustongues



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, the domestic au we all deserve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 03:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12203079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocustongues/pseuds/crocustongues
Summary: in which merlin and arthur are strung together by moments shared between them and with others.





	because ours are the moments i play in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> this is for my lovely pal saz's birthday (which was last week eek!) but i hope you enjoy it too!

i.

Arthur takes his tea the way Merlin does not—three spoons of sugar to near boiling tea. More fool Merlin if he refuses to recognise the joys of sweet, milky tea. Arthur wakes up first, and always has; Merlin’s ‘five more minutes’ a humdrum set of garbled sounds from under the blanket.

He makes his cup of tea, the first in a series of five, six, seven. Arthur sits at the table and stifles his yawns, opening up today’s newspaper and listens for inklings of Merlin’s wakefulness.

ii.

Merlin emerges from the bedroom nearly half an hour later, yawning wide and cuddling their cat Freya close to his chest while Arthur looks on three-fourths envious and one-fourths in disbelief at the way Merlin’s hair stands in disarray. Freya meows loudly, and leaps off the second she has the chance to, in search of a patch of golden sunlight to take her morning nap.

Merlin and Arthur stare at her fondly, before the spell of silence is broken, and Merlin puts the kettle on for the next round of tea—peppermint, and Merlin is determined to starve Arthur’s sweet tooth.

He sits down opposite Arthur while the timer ticks away merrily in the background and Arthur smiles at him, eyes crinkling—and his heart feels warmer in his chest.

iii.

Arthur works at a company, a dreary from 9 to 5 (on Merlin’s terms; but then again Merlin leads the adventurous life of a children’s author), and returns home to a cardigan clad Merlin, tapping away at his computer. Arthur knows better than to interrupt Merlin’s next bestseller (it’s on its first draft and Arthur is _incredibly_ proud).

Merlin works odd hours, sometimes late into the evening, coming to bed when Arthur has long since succumbed to dreams. No matter how tired Merlin is, he pauses for a few moments, drinking Arthur in with a soft twinkle in his eye. In the near darkness, a moment so delicate, Merlin is semantically inept to even attempt to put in phrases. So he brushes them under the rug with his odd socks and dust bunnies.

iv.

Days are lovely when Merlin wakes up first—a rarity, but minor miracles occur in this household.

Arthur looks lovely asleep, forehead unwrinkled and expression peaceful and Merlin’s expression mirrors Freya’s satisfied one when she finds a forgotten toy she had likely hidden behind the sofa. Merlin’s mouth feathers over Arthur’s temple and gently scoots off the bed, reaching for his spectacles and cracks his knuckles. 

He’s discovered the missing plot point for the prince and his knight.

v.

Chaos in their home is named spring cleaning. Merlin thrives in it while Arthur tries, in vain, to throw out anything with a fraction of sentiment. Merlin is the knighted protector of disused knickknacks and everything in the ‘To Throw’ bin bag ends up in the cupboards again.

Take, for example, the set of chipped mugs Arthur is looking at with a frown. Morgana had likely pawned these off to them sometime in university, and he’s pretty sure he threw them out last month, last year, the year before that—and he’s sure he’s going to find them on the shelves tomorrow.

Merlin is sat on the floor, encompassed by towers of books and vinyl records and stacks and stacks of pictures. The one on top is from when Morgana graduated university, a year before Arthur and Merlin had and they had partied until they couldn’t walk straight. Gwen had been red in the face with embarrassment as she helped a drunk Morgana, her equally drunk brother, and his boyfriend into her pristine Lexus. Good times.

They spend the next few hours like they usually do, that is, reminiscing instead of actually dusting and wiping and organising. But it’s OK, there’s a picture of Gwaine in a ridiculous powder blue tuxedo to be laughed at for ten minutes straight.

They order Thai takeout from the deli a couple of blocks away and eat straight from the container, surrounded by poetry (Keats and Thomas and Browning, most prominently), and this is how Lancelot finds them late in the afternoon, still in their pyjamas as he drops in to check on Merlin’s drafts.

They’re a compendium of artefacts and idiosyncrasies; Merlin’s expansive hand gestures and Arthur’s quiet brooding, the little picture frame on the mantelpiece of a lake they visited over the summer, and Freya’s litter scattered all over the apartment just like the little pieces of themselves, both inside the house and each other.

**Author's Note:**

> (i don't write for the bbc merlin fandom could you tell haha bye ily saz also sushi who beta'd this fic it would've been a literal mess without u)
> 
> the title is from supercut by lorde from her album melodrama


End file.
